


Fennec the Dragonborn

by MarlenaWatches



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bad Things Happen To Bad People, Bosmer Orphan, Bosmer child, Exiled Telvanni Wizard, Exiled Telvanni Wizard adopts feral Bosmer child, Found Family, Gods they're awkward, Grandpa Dunmer, He thinks the Morag Tong are out to get him, He's REALLY OLD you guys, He's really old and really awkward, Heed the tags please, Just letting ya'll know, Learning to become family, Nevermind they're essentially extinct now, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Telvanni Beekeeper, Verbal Abuse, fifth chapter is violent, he's a prickly old man, just tagging the namecalling in case that's a thing for someone, old n'wah is old, pre-dragonborn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28787886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarlenaWatches/pseuds/MarlenaWatches
Summary: This story wouldn't leave me alone.  I blame it all on a mod.  Tel Mos.  It gave me IDEAS, and those IDEAS turned into PLOT BUNNIES and they hopped around my head until I had to write them down.  Goddammit.  So here we are.  I have no idea where this is going, but Fennec is INSISTENT about this shit, so here we go.Here's the mod that kicked this off, btw.  https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/11989
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. A Bosmer Meets a Wizard

Fen realized he was in trouble. He needed food, and healing. It had been two days of running. Of hiding, of drinking dirty rainwater pooled in pitted, weathered rocks, of climbing trees to snatch an hour or two of sleep before forcing himself to move on.

He’d ripped his shirt into strips, and wrapped the thin, filthy fabric around the gash on his upper arm, the arrow wound in his thigh. He had a fever, which meant infection, which meant slow death if he didn’t find help soon.

His plan had been to make it to Ivarstead, though all he really knew of Ivarstead was that it was a Nordic village to the west. His mother had occasionally traveled there to trade her furs and ivory carvings for foodstuffs, lumber, and coin. She always left him at home with his auntie. “When you’re older, I’ll take you with me. You’re still too small, Fenaran.”

Well. Now she was dead, and his auntie with her, and he was running from the goatfucking trollspawn that had killed them. He didn’t even know if they were still chasing him, but he was too fear-sick to stop. He had to get to Ivarstead.

His injured leg had given out from underneath him again, and he’d begun to wonder, through the haze of pain and exhaustion, if he’d have to _crawl_ the rest of the way to Ivarstead, when he spotted the giant mushroom. At least, that’s what he thought it was. The more he looked, the more confused he became. It was…woody, for lack of a better term. It reminded him of the swollen burls that sometimes formed on conifers that got too wet for too long in the soggier areas of the Rift. Only, the whole thing looked like a burl; swollen and lumpy. 

Rough-hewn stairs lead up to a platform allowing access to a perfectly round door set into the thick stalk of the gigantic fungus. A mushroom-headed balcony sprouted up from the bulbous top of the main body, and spherical glass lanterns hung all about the structure, glowing with a soft orange light. Smoke rose from three separate chimney spouts, each poking through the various swollen mounds that served as the dwelling’s roof. For that’s what it was. A dwelling. Someone’s home, as weird and fantastical as it was. A knobbled, lumpy mushroom house, with broad, sprawling roots clinging tightly to the rock of the mountain, perched at the edge of a cliff overlooking a massive waterfall.

Fen gaped at it for a moment, noting idly to himself that the mushroom house looked comically out of place in the rocky, alpine surroundings of the western Rift. He wondered if this was what Bosmeri homes in Valenwood looked like. Hope flared in his chest. If so, then perhaps he’d found a family of fellow Bosmer, and they’d be willing to help him. That settled it. He limped up the steps and pounded frantically on the round wooden door.

“Help, please! Hello? Please, I need help!” He sagged against the door as he called, his whole body shaking with exhaustion and fever. There came shuffling noises from inside, and relief rose thick in his throat as the door began to open. It swung away from him, inward into the building, and his relief quickly shifted to pained shock as he fell facefirst over the threshold. Grimacing at the way his cheek throbbed against the cold stone floor, he groaned.

 _Well I suppose I should just be thankful,_ he thought to himself sullenly, _that it didn't open outward and send me ass over end back down the front steps..._

Fen blinked and lifted his head, bringing a pair of green, embroidered slippers mere inches from the tip of his nose sharply into focus. Draped over the tops of those slippers was a beautiful, plum-colored robe. He rolled to his side with a grunt, eyes following the fabric up, up to the face now peering down into his own. It was only due to sheer, bone-deep fatigue that he managed not to scream.

Ancient skin the color of charcoal stretched over a bony face that was all angles. Large, prominent brow ridges, sharp cheek bones over sunken jowls, mouth a narrow gash below a long, pointed nose. Wrinkles formed craggy lines over every fold and narrow curve of his features, and framed by it all, almond-shaped eyes the color of fresh blood seemed to glow against the dark grey of his flesh. His thick, silver eyebrows were drawn down into a severe glower, and wisps of silver hair had escaped the tie at the back of his head to frame his haggard face in a mad frizz.

“And what do you mean by this, then?!” The robed creature demanded angrily. Fen trembled, struck silent with fear. “Pounding on my door, interrupting my work, and look! You’ve got blood and muck all over the flagstones! Ohn hla s’wit! Ugh! Might as well come the rest of the way in, now the mess is already made…” The robed creature leaned further down and grasped Fen’s uninjured arm, hauling the small, frightened Bosmer to his feet. The hand clutching his arm was surprisingly strong, given that it seemed to be skin stretched over bone, and little else.

Mutely, he allowed himself to be manhandled further into the odd, organic building and shoved into a wooden chair. The robed creature closed the front door and bustled into the next room, grumbling angrily to himself in a voice that was more rasp and whispered growl than actual sound, and Fen watched him go with horrified fascination.

“How’s a mer to get any blasted work done, that’s what I’d like to know! Bloody fetchers and bandits and bears, raiding my hive, stealing my chickens, and now a half-dead, feral Bosmer kit on my doorstep and where did I put that blisterwort I just had it out, b’vhek, where – ah, there it is…”

As the creature continued to mutter to himself, shuffling around the space, gathering bits of herb and insect, Fen realized; this was an old mer, not some deadric monster, as he’d initially feared. Just an old hermit in an odd house made of giant, woody mushroom. 

Now that he was relatively sure a violent death was not imminent, Fen dared to look around. The walls of his unnerving host’s home appeared to be almost…spongy; great oblong shapes patterned into the concave vertical surfaces, reminding him a bit of honeycomb. The earthy smells of glowing mushroom and elves ear permeated the air, mixing with cooksmoke and slightly acrid alchemical fumes. Basic bookshelves, decorative woven baskets, and utilitarian wooden boxes filled the edges of the space. 

He was seated at a small kitchen table, lit by more of the same hanging glass lanterns he’d seen outside. Bread, cheese and pan-fried fish were laid out on several plates amid strange ceramic bottles of something that did NOT look like ale. His stomach growled audibly. The old mer stopped his muttering and poked his frizzy head through the open doorway adjoining the kitchen to what looked like a bedroom, his crimson eyes narrowed. Fen hunched in on himself and wrapped his arms around his middle, trying to will his stomach silent. 

“Well that won’t do; have some bread and cheese, there, but slowly; you look as if you’ve gone without for too long, and it’ll make you sick to eat too much to quickly. There’s shein on the table there as well, but don’t touch any of the beige bottles, that’s sujamma, it’ll knock a little n’wah like you right on your arse, so don’t even try it. I’ve no desire to clean up your bile alongside the blood and dirt you’ve already mucked into my tower, boy.” With that, he ducked back out of sight, muttering something about butterfly wings. 

Fen waited a moment to see if the invitation to eat would be rescinded, and when it wasn’t, he cautiously tucked in to a chunk of wheat bread. Chewing, he eyed the light blue bottle next to the cheese, and wondered if he should risk it. Sod it, he was thirsty. He washed down his mouthful of bread with a swig of the…shein? He was pleasantly surprised to find it was berry-sweet, if a bit sharp. He drank a bit more and reached for a rind of cheese, blissfully grateful for the way his stomach slowly unknotted itself. He found himself idly remembering his last decent meal. His throat closed, and he forcefully shoved the thought aside; he would _not_ cry in front of his strange host. 

Speaking of whom… the strange old mer hobbled back into the room with a small potion bottle and a large bowl of steaming water. He set both on the table and eyed the boy critically, who had stopped eating and regarded the strange old mer with large, wary eyes. 

“Right. Best let the food settle before I pour a healing draught into you. In the mean-time I can at least look you over and try to clean up whatever injuries you’ve managed to collect.” The elder pushed the other chair over to face the little Bosmer and sat with a grunt, spidery hands reaching for the filthy cloth binding Fen’s arm. The boy flinched, but made himself sit still as the haphazard dressing came free. 

“N’chow, this is _infected_ , idiot boy!” The old mer’s voice was a low hiss, and Fen flinched again as the elder swiped at the gash with a hot wet cloth. “Did your Alma never teach you to clean a cut? God’s grief!” Fen grit his teeth against the fresh waves of pain as the cloth pulled at torn, inflamed skin. “Alma?” he asked to distract himself. The old mer glanced up at the boy’s face and grunted, frowning; “Your mother, boy. Or father. Whatever scuttlehead presumably raised you.” 

Fen blinked rapidly, tears rising unbidden. The elder slowed his ministrations, studying the boy’s face. “Agawen is gone. So is Veraufwen, my auntie. Killed. I ran. The…the bad men…they laughed and let me go. To hunt. They thought I’d be easy to catch.” He barely got the words out before his throat swelled closed and the tears spilled. He hunched over himself, shaking as the fear and rage and shock finally overtook him. He realized, in a detached, dimly horrified sort of way, that the elder was staring, and that he was making a shameful spectacle of himself, but he seemed to have lost all control over his body. Sobs wracked his small frame, his breath came in short gasps, and he couldn’t control any of it.

“Oh. I. Well…” The old mer’s hands fluttered awkwardly around the child’s head and shoulders, a perplexed helplessness settling over his ancient face. He rested his knobby fingers lightly over small, thin shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry, hla f’lah,” he said softly. The boy curled toward him, a low wail issuing from between bared teeth, and the elder’s face crumpled. He pulled the small Bosmer into himself and wrapped his bony arms around the child, tucking him under his long chin. The boy clung to him and wept harder, and the old mer rocked him, whispering nonsense and old lullabies he barely remembered as he let the child grieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dunmeri translations
> 
> Ohn hla s’wit - You little idiot/moron/dimwit  
> b’vhek - literally “By Vivec!”  
> shein - comberry wine, common and cheap  
> sujamma - considered very potent, one of the mid-range liquors in price  
> n’wah - foreigner or slave, usually used as an insult  
> N’chow - damn (good old, all-purpose expletive)  
> scuttlehead - dumbass, stupid, etc  
> hla f’lah - little fellow, little friend (like we sometimes use mate, man or dude today)
> 
> Bosmeri translations;
> 
> Agawen - wisewoman (in this context, wise mother, respectful term for mother)  
> Aga - wise  
> Wen - woman  
> Veraufwen - Clanwoman (a woman of your clan)  
> Verauf - Clan
> 
> General;
> 
> Mer - anyone of elven heritage. Bosmer, Dunmer, Altmer, etc.


	2. Bees And A Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day. It's awkward.
> 
> Been futzing with this chapter long enough. Off it goes into the void.
> 
> Also, yes, I'm aware fennec foxes aren't a thing on Nirn. I don't care. It's my story and I'll play how I want to. This story owes its inception to a skyrim player home mod that sticks a Telvanni tower in the western Rift, so canon divergence is kind of a given here, folks.

Fen woke up in a strange bed, greeted by strange smells, and was therefore, naturally, overwhelmed with a rising tide of panic that sent him tumbling from the bed and scooting underneath it in a mad, frantic scramble. Once there, he tried to control his breathing and take stock of his immediate condition and surroundings.

Arm and leg. Both dressed in fresh bandages and much less painful than they had been. The room. A bedroom. The scent of herbs. The smell of green things decomposing in the dark. Cooksmoke. Faint alchemical fumes. Baking bread. The light is low, and orange. Strange glass lamps. Oh. The mushroom house. The strange old hermit. He pieced it all together like a jigsaw puzzle made of colors and smells and jagged images of memory. _The strange old mer. Right. He helped me. He…._

Speak of the deadra…the old mer in question walked into the room and stopped short. From under the bed Fen could see those now-familiar green slippers, but the robe above them was a deep, luxurious orange, which made Fen think about the southern Rift’s colorful aspen trees. He’d never seen that particular shade of orange in their ever-shifting cycles. He blinked, drawn from his thoughts when the old Mer harumphed.

“I can leave your breakfast on the floor, if you like, dual hla f’lah.” The elder’s dry rasp was amused, and his left foot tapped its toes, rhythmically. Fen felt his face heat up, and he bearcrawled out from under the bed, eyes fixed on his host’s shoes as he stood up and fidgeted. “I’m sorry. I woke up and didn’t remember where I was…” 

The old mer cleared his throat to interrupt; “Yes, yes, I quite understand." He looked down at the steaming bowl in his long, weathered hands, and continued gently, "If it needs saying, I swear so now; you're in no danger from me, boy." He regarded the youngster solemnly for a moment, before taking a deep breath. "Now, here is ot brofis," he set the bowl briskly down upon the bedside table. "Eat up. There are facilities out behind the tower, and hot water in a pot by the front door for you to wash yourself with. Mind you don't disturb your bandages, I’ll come check on you once I’m done with the bee hive.” With that, the elder swept out of the bedroom and then out the front door, leaving the young Bosmer more than a little befuddled in his wake.

Shaking his head, Fen looked to the bowl his strange host had left for him, and proceeded to inhale the contents; some sort of spiced porridge, topped with two poached eggs and a large, mystery-meat sausage. 

After using the outhouse behind the tower and washing himself down in the pot of water on the front porch, Fen was feeling much improved about the state of things. He scrubbed his pants in the leftover water as best he could, rung them out and hung them to dry on the porch railing. The old mer was still preoccupied with his bee hive, grumbling incoherently from somewhere in the brush behind it, so Fen decided to find a sunny patch of grass to nap in.

He was awoken by a wad of cloth thrown into his face. “Clothes, ohn hla tigi. Put them on. Ugh.” The old mer was wearing a wide-brimmed, woven straw hat draped with fine netting that covered his head and tucked into the neck of his robe. Fen thought he looked ridiculous. Which, he supposed, was a step up from terrifying and otherworldly strange.

The boy giggled to himself as he donned the too-large tunic and leggings, tickled by the absurdity of it all. Quick as it came, his mirth abated, unwittingly recalling the recent events which had lead him to his current circumstances. He shook himself mentally. “My name is Fenaran, by the way," he told the strange old Mer, rolling the cuffs of his borrowed leggings up to his ankles. "Fen, to my family." The elder harumphed; “Names are for the civilized, not du'gahkiim who scamper about the wilderness in the buff.” Fen’s jaw dropped, indignant; “I had to wash my pants, you crazy old man!” The elder tore off his odd hat, silver hair frizzing around his face, crimson eyes flashing angrily. “Ohn khebreit velk, you dare insult me? I am Vanikath of House Telvanni, and you are a disrespectful little fox in need of a good thrashing!”

The two mer stood glaring at one another for a long moment, the roar of the nearby waterfall filling the angry silence between them. The boy dropped his eyes first. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, taking a step back. “Thank you for the clothes. And the food. And…for everything.”

The elder blinked, then shuffled in place, looking askance. “Yes, well. Ahem. Apology accepted. And you’re welcome.”

Uncomfortable silence descended. Vanikath cleared his throat and stated briskly, “Well! Hmm. You mentioned family. Is there someone I should be trying to contact for you? Relatives you can go to?”

Fen shook his head mutely, eyes glued firmly to the ground as he tried not to fidget. He didn't see Vanikath wince. “Well,” the elder said again. “Fen. Hrmm." He studied the boy a moment, then straightened with a nod to himself; "You remind me of a creature I once saw in Elsweyr. A small desert fox with overly large ears. Cunning little nuisance. Stole my best socks. The Khajiit wouldn't let us trap it though; they said it kept the snake population down. Fennec, they called it. It’ll do. You will stay. I shall take you on as my viya. My student. You will call me Kena Vanikath. You’ll assist me with my work, and I will attempt to educate you; mold you into something resembling a civilized mer.”

Fen’s eyes flew up to Vanikath’s face, wide with surprise. “You… You want me to stay?” The skinny old mer crossed his arms, squishing his straw hat as he looked down his pointed nose at the boy. He pursed his lips and sniffed; “If you make yourself useful, and apply yourself earnestly to all that I will _try_ , Gods help me, to teach you. What say you, boy?”

Fen nodded vigorously. A roof over his head, odd though it was, food in his belly, and the chance to learn his letters? Perhaps even a trade? By Y’ffre, how could he say no? _Why_ would he? He had nowhere else to go. He straightened his spine, his jaw set with determination. He bowed the way his agawen had taught him, to pay respect to an elder, hands crossed over his chest. “I would like to stay, Kena Vanikath, if you’ll have me.”

Vanikath harumphed. “Well of course I will, I offered didn’t I? You think I say things just to hear the sound of my own voice? Humph!” Fen straightened, trying to keep the grin off his face. Vanikath’s scowl deepened, and he grumbled as he stuck his hat back over his head. “Well that's sorted, for good or ill. Hrm. Come, the day grows older, and we have things to do, hla viya. We’re off to find my missing queen.”

Fen blinked. “Huh?”

“My queen, Fennec, she’s gone, and taken half my blasted hive with her. We’ll have to track her down and reclaim the swarm.”

Fen was thoroughly confused, and it showed. Vanikath sighed. “Bees, Fennec. Half of them are gone from my hive, and we’ve got to find - oh B’vehk, just come, I’ll explain some of the basics of beekeeping while we look, Azura give me strength…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dunmeri Tranlations;
> 
> dual hla f’lah - wild little fellow  
> ot brofis - literally "a food bowl" or a bowl of food  
> ohn hla tigi - you little ape  
> du'gahkiim - wild beasts/animals  
> Ohn khebreit velk - you foolish child  
> viya - learner, student  
> Y'ffre - Primary God in the Bosmeri pantheon  
> Kena - an honorific for scholars and tutors  
> Azura - A Deadric Prince worshiped by many Dunmer.
> 
> General;
> 
> Deadra - Entities who inhabit various realms of Oblivion. Malicious gods, essentially.


	3. You can't WHAT?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short one. Our Telvanni Grandpa is Not Pleased.

That evening, after an extensive lecture regarding the various intricacies of beekeeping, and a rather painful adventure moving a swarm of agitated bees from a dead tree branch into an empty water barrel Vanikath had converted into a temporary hive, the two exhausted Mer sat at the kitchen table of Tel Mos, applying an anti-inflammatory healing salve to the impressive multitude of stings they’d collected between them.

Fen eyed Vanikath furtively as he smeared the ointment over a throbbing cluster of red lumps on his chest. He had to ask. It had been on his mind ever since he first set eyes on the old hermit. His curiosity was killing him.

He took a fortifying breath and dove in; “Kena?”

Vanikath hissed as he managed to extract a stinger from the back of his left hand, “ _N’chow_ , Mephala _take_ those little _beasts..._ Ahem. Yes, viya?”

“Are...are you sick?”

The old Mer blinked at the boy; “What? Why?”

“Well, erm. Your skin. It’s...weird. And your eyes are very…red. Is it…an illness?”

Vanikath stared at the boy, who squirmed.

“Not that I…um. Nevermind, it was rude to ask, I’m sorry.”

“Boy,” the elder stated flatly, “I am a Dunmer.”

Fen gazed blankly at the old Mer, waiting for clarification.

Vanikath shut his eyes and rubbed his temples; “You’ve never seen a Dunmer. Never even _heard_ of the Dunmer.” 

It wasn’t a question.

Fen shook his head, not trusting his words.

Vanikath inhaled slowly, then let it out even more slowly. He stood up. “Well. I’ve just added several tomes to your already extensive reading list.”

Fen felt embarrassment creep up his neck to enflame his cheeks, and it took all his strength to whisper into the space between them, “Uhm. Kena?”

“What is it, viya.”

“I can’t read.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N'Chow - damn, dammit, basic all-purpose swear  
> Mephala - a Daedric prince worshiped by many Dunmer


	4. Let The Learning Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grandpa Telvanni is going to teach you ALL THE THINGS, and you will be GRATEFUL.  
> ...oh, you need a break? You're burning out and getting frustrated? That's fine. Just go take your precious break then.  
> You little S'wit.

In the following weeks, Vanikath set about the task of correcting his young student’s illiteracy with a ruthless efficiency that Fennec found both effective and terrifying. The little Bosmer spent long hours bent over parchment, clumsily wielding a feather quill, repeatedly scribing the Cyrodillic alphabet, followed by basic words, phrases and syntax, ink staining his fingers and smudging his face as he tried not to splotch the paper and ruin his work. This was followed by absently massaging away cramps in his right hand as Vanikath introduced him to numerous maps and atlases, rasping explanations of geography, tracing out the borders between nations, giving context to their geopolitical intricacies, tying it all into a basic cultural overview of Dunmeri, Bosmeri, and Altmeri societies. 

His teacher would regularly leave him alone to study, shuffling off to work on some new alchemical formula, or research some supposedly interesting aspect of an obscure plane of oblivion, or whatever else the crazy old Dunmer did when he wasn't checking Fen's work... And check it he did. The elder would appear, suddenly and silently, leaning over Fen's shoulder at odd intervals to ensure his student was working consistently, and fixed him with a menacing glower if he caught the boy daydreaming or doodling. Vanikath's face, while now a familiar sight, was still a fearsome one, and Fennec decided fairly quickly that he wished to avoid as many harrowing, red-eyed glares as possible.

The old mer provided a basic overview of Nordic history as well, telling Fen with an air of disdainful resignation that, “Given we technically live among the overgrown tigii, it’s best you know something of their culture. Such as it is.” Vanikath didn't think much of Nords. Fen shared his teacher's sentiments and then some, but absorbed the additional information anyway. Know thine enemy, and all that.

Vanikath also took Fen out to forage for alchemical ingredients, and during these excursions the old Dunmer quizzed the boy relentlessly; “This flower, what is its name? How do you spell it? What are three of its most common uses? Good, now name the five great houses of Morrowind. Spell each one aloud. What is each house known for?” On and on it went, until Fen thought his skull might burst from all the information crammed up in it.

He reached a breaking point one rainy Fredas, toward the tail-end of Hearthfire, while Vanikath was telling him about something called a Ghost Fence, explaining how important it had been back before the Red Year.

“The Tribunal had been severely weakened in a battle with Dagoth Ur; you see, Almalexia and Sotha Sil had managed to lose two very powerful artifacts; two of Kagrenac’s tools, which –“ 

“Wait, Kena, please, my head is spinning; who is Kagrenac? And I don't think you’ve ever mentioned a Dagoth…Dagoth Ur before. Why does any of this matter, anyway? You’ve said Morrowind is little more than ash wastes and lava flows since the Red Mountain blew, and most Dunmer have gone back to worshiping three big Deadra, right? The, um, the Reclamations?” 

Vanikath, who’d gone rather still at the boy’s frustrated outburst, slowly nodded in assent. 

“Well that’s that then! The Tribunal went and buggered themselves, which somehow made the mountain explode; a bunch of people died, a bunch of other people fled so they _wouldn’t_ die, and now I’m sat here learning about how a bunch of centuries-dead cock-ups ruined a country so badly it basically doesn’t even exist anymore, and hasn't for over 200 years, so what in blazing oblivion is the _point?”_ Fen shoved away from the table, pacing the kitchen, frowning and agitated. 

Vanikath regarded him silently, his crimson eyes shuttered, his angular face a stony mask. Fen glanced at his teacher and paused, chagrined. “I’m sorry, Kena Vanikath, I just…I need some air. I’ll be back before nightfall.” With that, he was out the door, leaving the old Mer staring silently after him.

Fen padded into the woods at a light jog. The moment he'd hit the cold mountain air he'd felt better, and he broke into a run, winding his way between the trees. He’d missed this. Missed running. Foraging with an old mer and his walking stick was nowhere near the same. He could feel the stress and frustration melting off, the excess nervous energy evaporating into the wind. He bared his teeth in a fierce grin and ran faster.

Here's a complimentary map of modern Morrowind! It's all kind of a mess, but they are rebuilding. Trying to, anyway. It's not quite as bad as Vanikath and Fennec think it is. Mostly.

https://www.deviantart.com/fredoric1001/art/Morrowind-4E201-English-519127153

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tigii - apes


	5. Deja Vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again. Dammit, Fennec.

Fennec was in trouble. Again. One short month after his last desperate flight through this stretch of woods, and he’s right back where he started. Injured. Terrified. Hunted.

He knew better than to poke around Nord tombs. He tried to come up with a reason, an explanation for his impulse to peek through that old doorway, and had nothing. Gods he was stupid.

The outlaws camped just inside the old crypt had all swung around to face him, zeroing in on his form with sharp intent. There were four of them. All Nords. Fennec had felt the blood drain from his face as he recognized one of them, and in a flurry of panic, he’d run, back toward Tel Mos, toward Vanikath, toward safety.

He felt the arrow as it gouged his side, heard the shouts and crackling underbrush that meant pursuit, and he ran harder.

He wasn’t going to make it. They were too close. His side was on fire, he could feel the wet seep of his blood, soaking the left leg of his breeches, impeding his stride. They were right behind him. Another arrow whizzed past his head.

“KENAAA!” He tore the shout from his overworked lungs, and forced himself to breathe in again; “VANIII!”

And then he was grounded, face shoved down into dead leaves and dirt, the weight of someone much bigger than himself bearing down on his back, crushing the breath from his body. His vision blurred.

“Got you now, you little rat,” a man’s heavy snarl in his ear, a huge fist twisted painfully into his hair.

_This is it. This is how I die. In the dirt; a hunted thing. Because I was stupid. Ha. Will Agawen and Auntie be there to greet me…?_

The man on his back sat up and leaned back; “Oi! I caught him! Over h-“ The shout ended abruptly, with a wet, squishy sort of _thunk_ that Fen dimly thought to himself sounded a lot like a butcher’s cleaver, taken to a cut of venison. The grip on his hair disappeared, the weight on his back spasmed, listed to the right, and then slipped off of him entirely, landing with a thump on the forest floor beside him.

The boy gulped in a huge lungful of air, coughing on the exhale, and lifted himself up on shaking arms. He looked over at the outlaw slumped next to him, and immediately wished he hadn’t. A massive, jagged shard of pale blue ice protruded from the dead Nord’s ruined neck. Fennec felt bile rise in the back of his throat and jerked his eyes away, willing himself to his feet.

“Fennec. Here to me. Now.”

Eyes huge, Fen swung his head toward that voice, harsh and familiar and oh so welcome. Vanikath stood a short distance away, his blood-red eyes narrowed to slits, fixed upon something a distance behind the young Bosmer, bony hands curled around smoking fistfuls of deadly magic.

Fen scrambled toward the Dunmer, and half collapsed against his side as he grabbed a handful of soft, deep blue robe. He felt Vanikath shift his weight toward him, providing a more solid surface to lean against. Fen was ridiculously grateful, pressing his free hand to the still-bleeding gash in his abdomen.

At that moment, the three remaining outlaws caught up to their dead compatriot. The scrawny one with the bow ducked behind a tree, notching an arrow, while the two warriors advanced, one with a shield and shortsword, the other wielding a long, two-handed axe.

Vanikath brought up a shimmering, ethereal barrier which made the world in front of Fennec’s bewildered eyes look as if it were all submerged in shallow water. Then the old Dunmer cast something that brushed against the edges of his skin and soul in a way that made the boy shudder with revulsion. He gripped all the tighter to Vanikath, and through the protective shell of the shimmering screen, he saw the body of the dead Nord rise.

The outlaws froze in shock, and then began to shout and yell, outraged and fearful. Sword and Shield continued to advance upon the two Mer, while Two-Hander turned to engage the walking corpse of his former ally. 

Arrows pinged and snapped against Vanikath’s protective ward. The old Dunmer’s thin lips curled up into a vicious smile, and with a flick of his bony wrist, he sent three jagged spears of ice flying at the Nord bearing down upon them. The first sank deep into the outlaw’s iron shield, the force of the impact swinging his shield-arm wide, leaving him open and vulnerable to the next two spikes of ice. They speared into his chest and gut, the old leather and rusty iron plating of his patchwork armor affording no protection whatsoever. He dropped like a stone.

Vanikath’s dead thrall had advanced upon Two-Hander, heedless of further injury; he'd gotten inside his opponent’s reach, wrapped his dead hands around the outlaw's neck, and simply throttled the man to death. That done, the walking dead man apparently sought to do the same to the archer, who had backed frantically away from the cover of his tree, scrambling and stumbling as he tried to maintain distance from his former ally. He sent arrow after arrow into the corpse, which was, of course, completely ineffective, so with a curse the archer turned to flee.

“Oh, I think not, Sera,” Vanikath hissed through his teeth. He raised his hand, and arcs of lightning shot forth from his fingertips, slamming into the back of the outlaw bowman like a troll’s blow. The man flew forward off his feet, slammed into the trunk of an inconvenient tree with a sickening crack, and then sagged to the ground like a broken doll, curling smoke rising from his still form.

Silence reigned then, as Fen watched the walking dead man dissolve into a pile of ash and bone. "Fennec. Hla Viya, are there more?" Fen blinked, and turned to look up into his mentor's face. He shook his head. Vanikath let his ward spell drop with a little sigh of relief, and then bent down toward Fen, pulling a healing draught from the inner lining of his robe. "Drink this, boy." Fen obeyed, and felt the gash in his side begin to mend almost immediately.

The old Dunmer grasped the youngster's chin between his knobby thumb and forefinger, scanning his face with narrowed eyes. Apparently satisfied, he harumphed, let the boy go, and grasped Fen's shoulder, squeezing briefly before releasing him. "Come, let's get home. We'll clean you up, get some food in you, and then we'll have a little talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sera - Form of address meaning 'Sir'. Used in this context, it's rather sarcastic/mocking.  
> Hla Viya - Little student, little learner


	6. Yeah, not tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one.  
> The old Dunmer is just...really out of his depth here.  
> They'll talk about it...just...not tonight.  
> 

Settled once more in Tel Mos, seated at the modest kitchen table, wearing clean clothes and nursing a bottle of shein, Fennec couldn’t bring himself to meet his mentor’s eyes.

He felt so foolish. So stupid. The Dunmer had saved him, again. He owed the elder his life twice over, and the debt weighed heavily on his narrow shoulders.

“Fennec.”

The boy flinched, and glanced warily up at the old Mer. Brilliant red eyes watched him with solemnity, overshadowed by severe silver brows.

The old Dunmer started to say something, then seemed to reconsider mid breath, and sat back with a small sigh. “I must go out for a little while. Can I trust you to stay here till I return, hla viya?”

Fen’s brows steepled in silent question, a small surge of panic rising in his chest at the thought of being left alone, however short the duration.

The Dunmer cleared his throat, red eyes averted; “I need to, ehm, dispose of the remains. Ensure they are not found. The makhel tigii may have been outlaws, but bodies left out in the open to rot invite questions, and there are…reasons...for my seclusion, hla viya.”

Fen considered a moment, and then nodded his understanding. He set the bottle of shein back on the table and reached out to touch his mentor’s sleeve. He swallowed, and fought to maintain eye-contact. “Thank you, Kena Vani.”

The old Dunmer’s eyes widened, darting over the boy’s face, then shifted askance. Awkwardly, he patted the young Bosmer’s hand with long, dark fingers, and cleared his throat before straightening his spine. “Ehem. Well. You may thank me with renewed commitment to your studies. Hmph. Young people. No patience. No discipline. Shameful, I say. Now," he glared sternly at the little Bosmer, a knobby finger pointed at his face, "I want you to write out all the names of Skyrim’s holds, along with their capital cities. Ten repetitions for each, and then off to bed with you. We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow.”

Fen nodded his head vigorously in assent, threw his arms briefly but tightly around the bony shoulders of his mentor, and then hurried off to collect ink and parchment.

The old Dunmer blinked after the retreating form of his student, and then harumphed to himself as he collected his cloak and his favorite staff. With one last backward glance at the little Bosmer, who was just then digging carefully through a pile of maps in a box by the bedroom, he allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile as he set out into the cooling dusk.

Complimentary map of Skyrim's holdings! Capital cities not included.

https://www.reddit.com/r/nirnuniversallis/comments/bzcag8/skyrim_areas_and_holds_more_in_comments/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> makhel tigii - foul apes


	7. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk. It's awkward, but necessary.

Fennec rose from his nest of furs on the floor the next morning to find Vanikath snoring softly atop the covers of his narrow bed. He was still dressed in his dark blue robes, his hair a mass of silver frizz against the sackcloth pillow, his left arm and leg dangling loosely over the edge of the mattress. Fennec gently covered him with a sheepskin from his nest, and then climbed the ladder up to the second story as quietly as he could, to set about putting a stew together.

The rhythmic hiss of pipes was louder up in ‘the cabinet’, as Vanikath liked to call the small second story of Tel Mos. It housed an enchanting station, a broad writing desk, and a massive, cylindrical stonework hearth that the old Mer kept burning day and night. Last week he had explained to Fennec that the hearth flame heated the water cycling through the large network of pipes woven throughout the tower, keeping the entire organic structure warm and wet enough to withstand the freezing cold of Skyrim’s inhospitable climate.

“Repurposed Dwemer technology, scavenged from various ruins around Skyrim. As I grew and shaped my tower, I installed the pipes into each new section and level; they run all throughout the structure, and are integral to the health and maintenance of Tel Mos. A series of gears powered by a few soul gems keep the water flowing, vents and chimneys bleed off excess heat so as not to scorch anything of the living walls...It’s all very cleverly done, if I do say so myself,” the Dunmer had said with a proud grin.

“But why build a house out of mushroom? It seems like a lot of trouble to go to, just to build a house…”

The Dunmer had looked down his substantial nose at the young Bosmer and responded stiffly, “I am Telvanni.” As if that explained everything. Or anything. The old Mer had pulled himself up to his full height, arms crossed over his chest; “I may be exiled, and in hiding, but I am _still Telvanni_. Hrmph.” With that, he'd turned and stomped over to his alchemy station. Muttering to himself in incomprehensible Dunmeris, he'd pulled a few glowing mushrooms off the wall, chucked them into his mortar , and set himself to aggressively grinding them into a glowing paste.

Fennec was left with _more_ questions rattling around his head, not fewer, but one look at his mentor's tense, stiffened back told him this was not the time to prod.

Lost as he was in his recollections and musings, he didn’t hear or see Vanikath come up the ladder until the old Mer stifled a yawn, standing just behind him. Fen yelped, nearly dropping the wooden ladle, though he recovered quickly, and glanced up at the old Mer over his shoulder. Vanikath's silver hair was freshly washed and pulled up into its usual tail at the back of his head, and he’d changed into a robe the color of deathbells. Fennec smirked to himself, turning back to stir the stew. Honestly, how many robes did one Mer really need?

“Hrmm. That actually smells edible,” the Dunmer remarked, plucking the ladle from Fennec’s hand and scooping up a small spoonful to taste.

“My auntie taught me to make a few things,” he responded with a shrug, moving over to the desk, clearing space for dishes. 

“Your aunt? Not your alma?”

Fennec shrugged again, keeping his eyes down; “Agawen was out a lot. Hunting, trapping, trading. Most days it was just auntie and me holding down camp somewhere along the edge of Lake Tear, or Treva River, or Lake Henrich…”

“Your family moved around The Rift a great deal, then.”

Fennec sniffed and hunched his shoulders. “Yeah. We did.”

Vanikath paused, glancing over at the boy, and grimaced at himself. “Ah. Ehem. Well. You’ll find life with me to be rather more stationary. I do trade with Wilhelm and Klimmek over in Ivarstead from time to time, but that’s about the extent of it. I used to go delving into dwemer ruins, for my research, but alas, I’m not as spry as I used to be. I keep my ranging to a minimum these days - er, what’s wrong?”

Fennec was staring at the old Mer, his dark eyes wide and fearful. “You…you won’t leave me here alone when you go, will you? You’ll take me with you? When you go to trade, or wherever else?”

Vanikath stared back at the boy for a moment, mouth slightly ajar, and then cleared his throat with a frown, “Well of course I will bring you along; you’ll help me carry things. Perfectly good pair of arms on you; I told you when I took you on as my viya that you’d make yourself useful, and that’s exactly what you’ll do! With no complaining, either! Humph!”

The boy visibly relaxed, and nodded his assent while he brought over a pair of bowls; “Yes, Kena Vani. No complaining from me.” He served them both a portion and sat at the table next to Vanikath, who tucked in with a will. The boy was silent a moment more, staring into his stew, and then said softly, "I recognized one of them."

"Hmm? Speak up, viya, I can't hear you when you mumble."

Fen looked up at the old mer and took a breath; "I recognized one of them. The archer. He was one of the...one of the men who killed my mother and auntie."

A tense silence fell. Vanikath's red eyes were wide, and immeasurably old. He exhaled slowly through his teeth in a long hiss, and muttered a curse to himself as he looked away. "I am...sorry, hla viya. If I had known, his death would not have been _nearly_ so _quick._ " Fen blinked and looked back down at his bowl. The boy glared at his stew as he asked plaintively, "Why did they do it? Why my family? We were just camping, like we always did! We weren't hurting anyone..." Fen bit his lip as tears pricked at his eyes.

"Ah, hla viya, hush now," Vanikath put a hand over the Bosmer's shoulder and squeezed, "I wish I had easy answers for you," he turned the boy to face him more fully. "Bandits and raiders steal and kill. Since the Concordat was signed, more and more Nords have turned to such means for survival and profit. Many Nords think that elves don't belong here, that we steal from them simply because we take up space in what they think of as their land. Never mind that their Atmoran predecessors killed off the Snow Elves to lay claim to it all. The siege of Saarthal was horrible, it's called the Night of Tears for a reason, but to use that as an excuse for genocide? And then tell everyone not of Nord blood that they don't belong? Bah!" Fen was staring at him now, and Vanikath cleared his throat before continuing, "Ah, my point is, there are those in this land who wish harm to you, not because there's any real reason, but because of what you are. Those tigii last night, and from before, they were such beasts. You were there, you were vulnerable, and you were not like them. That was enough."

Fen remained quiet, mulling this over. Vanikath withdrew and returned to his stew. Fen straightened and dug into his own bowl. Thoughtful silence hummed between them as they ate.

“Aherm. Now. Viya. Attend,” Vanikath said gruffly after swallowing a spoonful. Fen looked up at him, his mouth overfull. Vanikath's lips pursed, eyes narrowing;

“From now on, I want you to remain close to the Tel. You may range east, as far as sighting the old Nord crypt, but no further, and you are never to enter it. As for khosikam a ouacithuhn sey, you will only ever do that when I am with you. Understand?”

Fen opened his mouth to speak, his eyebrows steepled in confusion, and Vanikath narrowed his eyes as he clicked his tongue impatiently; “Eat or talk, viya, only tigii do both at once; The path over the waterfall, boy, you will stay away from it unless you are crossing it with me. Do you understand?”

Fen nodded, swallowing his mouthful of stew with an audible gulp. The Dunmer harumphed, “Good. You’re not to go wandering the wilds again until I can teach you to defend yourself.” He shoved another helping of stew into his mouth, glaring down at his bowl as he chewed.

They ate in silence for a few more minutes, and then Fen asked hesitantly, “Kena? Will you…teach me to use magic?” 

Vanikath glanced sidelong at the small Bosmer, and responded slowly; “If you’ve an aptitude for it, then yes, eventually. For now let’s focus on walking before we try to run, hmm? You need to be able to read, and _comprehend_ what you're reading, before you can hope to learn anything from spell tomes.” Fen frowned, but nodded his understanding.

Vanikath gave him a small smile, “All in good time, viya. I promise.”

Fennec believed him, and was content.

Complimentary map of Skyrim which clearly marks and labels the larger bodies of water therein.

https://www.gamezplay.org/2011/11/elder-scrolls-v-skyrim-hd-map-in.html

Also, here's a link to some fun lorestuffs; this page in particular dealing with Telvanni tower construction.

https://www.imperial-library.info/content/basic-guide-telvanni-construction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tel - Tower  
> khosikam a ouacithuhn sey - walking the waterfall path


End file.
